between Wilbur's building and its southern neighbor. He walked over wet grass, heard a crunch of broken glass, stopped, listened, and inched forward until he'd slipped completely around the building and was standing in the alley.
The back door stood partially open. The section of cor-fidor it revealed was black as the night. Wilbur's leased AlfaSud was parked in the small dirt lot along with three other cars. Avi made a mental note to record their license plates, continued slowly toward the door.
He smelled something foul. Shit. Really ripe shit, had to be close by-he wondered if he'd gotten any on the Nikes or his pants. Wouldn't that be wonderful!
He took a step closer; the shit smell was really strong now. He had visions of it coating the bottom of his cuffs, clicked on the low beam of the flashlight, ran it over his trousers, then onto the ground in front of him.
Dirt, a bottle cap, something odd: shoes.
But vertical, pointing up at the sky. A pair of running shoes attached to white ankles-someone else's trouser legs. A belt. A shirt. Splayed arms.
A face.
In a split second he made sense of it: the body of the Latamnik, some sort of cord drawn tight around the poor guy's neck, the eyes open and bulging, the tongue distended and sticking out from between thickened lips.
A froth of saliva.
The smell.
Suddenly his homicide course came to mind, the English-language textbook that had made him sweat. Suddenly he understood the shit smell: death by strangulation, the reflexive opening of the bowels
He turned off the flashlight at once, reached frantically under his shirt for his Beretta; before he could get it out, felt stunning, electric pain at the base of his skull, a cruel flash of insight.
Then nothing.
Bitter-mouthed and queasy, Wilbur dragged himself out of the shower, made a halfhearted attempt at drying himself off, and struggled into his robe.
What a night-crap topping off crap.
They'd gotten to him, the Chosen People had.
CP: l.MW:0.
No more Butcher stories, not a single sentence since Sharavi and his storm troopers had put him through their Gestapo
Jesus, his head hurt, he felt feverish, sick as a dog. Stupid broad and her cheap brandy-thank God he'd had the presence of mind to pick up the bottle of Wild Turkey.
Thank God he hadn't wasted it on her. The bottle was waiting, still sealed, on his nightstand.
Ice cubes in the freezer; he'd filled the tray this morning-or was it yesterday morning? No matter. Important thing was, there was ice. And Turkey. Pop the seal-deflower the seal-and get some good stuff in his system.
A single, solitary cheerful thought at the end of a very crappy day.
Several crappy days.
Wiring his stories and watching for pickups, but not a single goddamned line in print. Good stories, too: human-interest follow-up on the Rashmawis, most of it made up but poignant-goddamned poignant. He knew poignant when he saw it. Another one with a Tel Aviv U. shrink armchair-analyzing the Butcher. And an interview with a disgruntled former Gvura creep exposing how Kagan cadged funds out of rich, respectable American Jews, silk-stocking types who insisted their names be kept secret. The piece h'd written had busted the secret wide open, listing names along with dollar amounts. He'd tacked on a tasty little summary tying the whole thing in with a Larger Social Issue: the conflict between the old Zionist idealism and the new militaristic
Big fucking deal. Not a word of it picked up.
Nada. They'd erased his identity-for all practical purposes, murdered him.
At first he'd thought it was a delay, maybe an oversupply of stories holding up his. But after four days he knew it was something else, grabbed the phone and called New York. Making noise about state censorship, expecting outrage, backup, some Freedom of the Press good fellowship, we're behind you, Mark, old buddy, will get right on it, yessir.
Instead: hemming and hawing, the kind of talking without saying anything politicians did when they wanted to avoid a. cutting question.
New York was part of it.
He'd been laid out on the altar for sacrifice.
Just like the Butcher victims: the unsung victim-how long before they buried him?
Nebraska. Or Cleveland. Some dead-end desk job purgatory. Meanwhile all he could do was bide his time, work on his screenplay, send letters to L.A. agents-if that panned out, fuck 'em, he'd be eating duck pizza at Spago
Until then, though, a cycle of wretched, empty days. A good romp would have eased the pain.
Romp and Turkey.
Thank God he hadn't wasted the good stuff on her, the phony.
Australian reporter, shoulders on her like a defensive lineman. But a nice face-no Olivia Newton-John, but good clean features, nice blond hair, good skin. All those buttermilk freckles on her neck and chest-he'd been
